The Last One
by coeurgryffondor
Summary: And that was why Emil would be spending the weekend on this skerry in the middle of Nowhere, Sweden with no cell service and no running water. Character-building, his brother had put it. / SuIce, past SuNor, SuDen, DenNor, DenIce, SuFin. Written (or at least finished) for 14 Days of (Hetalia) Love. Companion piece to "Skerry".


Author's note: This was been waiting to be finished for a really, really, really long time (since July 2012, yikes!). If you remember « _Skerry_ » from long ago, this is the companion to that in so much as this is Iceland's trip to the skerry referenced at some point by Norway. I've written this over a huge period but figured this was the time to finish it because I really do love how this one turned out.

* * *

**The Last One**

As a child he's always remembered the older man standing beside his big brother. The years continued rolling by and he recalls that though the man stood next to his brother less, he still defended him, spoke out for him, asked after him. His eyes would still dart to him in the room because he continued to love him, that much was obvious for even a child.

During the union there had been an uneasy relationship there, between the two strong men, his brother caught in the middle. He remembers often wondering why the two men tried: had they been in love before? Were they more calm and caring in private? Or did they truly crave something so painful and detrimental? Either way, when the one parted unceremoniously with his ward, the other cried and screamed and so he and his brother would hide away, the child somehow missing the giant man who barely looked at him.

At the odd meetings over the centuries he watched the tallest one and shortest one become closer, closer, until everyone knew the strong kingdom's weakness was the young man he loved and adored so much. His eyes always followed the small man in a way a teenage boy understands: the smirks, the brushes, the atmosphere around them. His brother and their master would fight; this man and his lover would laugh quietly.

And now Emil stands on the little jut of land, watching water lap furiously against the rock and wondering when he became the last one Berwald Oxenstierna had yet to love. He's not sure how he feels about that.

* * *

The tour of the small cabin is short, to say the least; even after centuries of it, the bluntness of Berwald's words still somehow takes Emil by surprise.

To the right end of the cabin is a small kitchen with a table the Icelander cannot imagine his companion's legs fit under. In the middle is a bookshelf and possibly a closet. To the left is a huge bed that even Berwald must be able to fit on.

Then something clicks.

"Outhouse, isn't it?" Emil asks, rolling his eyes.

"You'll live," Berwald says just as sarcastically, and turning he finds the large man looking out proudly over the clearing before the cabin. The trees around them are tall, undamaged. Berwald has always been protective of nature on his properties; Christen called it sappy and Timo romantic and Lukas lived in an apartment near a park because nature was fine so long as he didn't have to cut the grass.

Emil can appreciate the rawness of this island, deemed too small for human habitation. Despite its label Berwald had managed a cabin and outhouse, a fire pit, a dock– everything an ancient Viking like him could need. Emil appreciates that wonderment, though he's never had to fight for his survival; no, he was young when Lukas took him in, younger than Timo when the Finn became Berwald's ward, and so Emil has never had to survive in the wilderness the way Berwald has, with the simple kind of life Berwald has reconstructed for himself here.

And that was why Emily would be spending the weekend on this skerry in the middle of Nowhere, Sweden with no cell service and no running water.

Character-building, his brother had put it.

Fucking fantastic.

* * *

That first afternoon Berwald leaves Emil be, allowing the Icelander to unpack his bag. Berwald had stated from the start that he would not be volunteering to sleep on the floor, he wasn't that much of a gentleman any longer. Besides they were practically family after all, or at least Berwald was the man who for centuries had been fucking his brother and thus more or less Emil's brother-in-law. Or ex-brother-in-law. It was hard to know which with Lukas.

He eventually finds the man splitting logs of wood; when a breeze blows through the skerry Emil shivers, trying to understand why the man was doing what he was doing. For a while Emil leans against a tree admiring Berwald's rather impressive body; he wasn't just the physical form of the Swedish kingdom as a man– there was something else there, something solely Berwald. His back muscles ripple under his undershirt (his actual button-down forgotten under his water bottle), his pants slightly dirty as he bends his leg. His ass is clearly taut and not for the first time Emil imagines what Berwald must look like having sex.

Not that he wants to imagine that, closing his eyes and begging the images to go away, but his mind tends to do that. Normally he imagines Berwald banging his brother which just makes it more awful, throwing each other up against walls in bathrooms like desperate druggies that ravish, or else the slow tease across the floor of an expensive bedroom. Oh yeah, Emil's mind has tortured him with all the awful thoughts and the pale, handsome, blond man currently stacking up a tall pile of chopped wood only encourages without meaning to the fantasies.

"Hey," Berwald says over his shoulder. Emil comes to stand beside him because his feet are treacherous things like that. "What you thinking about?"

Their eyes meet and probably because he's being possessed by something or other, the smaller man sighs and admits, "You."

"Oh?" There is no condescension in that sound, only genuine surprise.

"And my brother," Emil adds, looking away.

"That so." He can almost hear the corner of the man's lips turning up at that.

"I bet the sex is mind-blowingly good," he mutters lamely and, admittedly, a bit more morosely than he had intended.

For a moment nothing happens, the moment pregnant. Closing his eyes the pale Icelander fears he's said too much before Berwald moves with the always-surprising swiftness of a large man. His hands move low across Emil's hips to rest slightly on his back, the Swedish nose pushing his chin to the side to kiss– holy fuck, kiss –at his neck and shoulder. Completely bewildered Emil freezes in the man's grasp, allowing him to kiss and suck and bite quietly before kissing his cheek and walking away, their eyes having never once met in all that.

"Sex with me is always mind-blowingly good," Berwald calls out, lifting his water bottle and shirt and heading inside, leaving Emil and his incredibly obnoxious boner in peace.

* * *

Emil's acutely aware that why Berwald and Lukas get along so well is that they have a habit of not talking about certain things, ever. He's glad of that fact as Berwald spends the rest of the day not speaking of That Incident, especially not while they're making dinner over an open fire. Emil had watched Berwald prep the meat he'd brought to the skerry before assisting in getting it cooking; now the Icelander mans the pit, Berwald lounging and giving instructions every once and a while.

"How have you never done this?" the Swede asks suddenly. Emil pulls a face.

"Done what?" The kingdom throws his head to the pit and he understands that that is his answer. "I dunno, Christen always did this sort of stuff. Contrary to popular belief I don't actually take great joy in « roughing it » out in the wilderness still untamed by man, exposed to the elements. I feel kind of useless doing that sort of stuff," the Icelander finishes lamely.

"Because you've never done it?" Berwald questions.

"Ja."

"Eh." Looking up he watches the other man take in the sun setting in the distance. "Not so bad, to have had the easy life. You don't have as many nightmares, your brother said." Of course he had, Lukas couldn't keep any of his secrets.

"I have plenty of nightmares." Most of them for Emil center around Berwald leaving the Kalmar Union and Lukas leaving to live with Berwald: in those two moments Christen had simply lost it, and Emil was left behind to watch.

"Yeah well," and the Swede sits, smiling uncharacteristically but clearly not meaning it, "those are my fault, presumably."

"Hmm?"

The man changes subjects. "Is your inner monologue loud?"

"And sassy," Emil quips in an attempt to stump the man. His plan doesn't work.

"Nothing wrong with sass."

"Please don't ever say that again Berwald."

When the Swede laughs, standing to poke at the fire beneath the meat, Emil can admire that beauty Lukas always told him Berwald possessed and good God, was it something to behold.

* * *

With dinner they have beer, which Emil immediately feels must be a bad idea. Turns out an hour later, it's proven bad.

Alcohol lowering their inhibitions just that little bit the pair sit at one of the skerry's two points jutting out in the water. The sun has long since set; the moon is bright and nearly full. Berwald wraps an arm around his shoulders and without thinking about it, without meaning to, the Icelander lays his head on the larger man's shoulder as if he was once more a child.

"Emil?"

There's a Swedish hand on his knee, creeping ever so slowly up his thigh, as his own does the same to Berwald: well, that's a bit different from how Emil remembers his childhood.

"You're beautiful Emil."

Not so different from how he remembers Lukas and Berwald being though.

* * *

Everything cleared and away for the night, Berwald lays face-down on the large bed in only pajama pants, letting out a sigh that Emil feels is a little too dramatic for the quiet man. His glasses must be pushing painfully into the side of his face as it lays on the pillow, though the Icelander can't be sure.

In one of Lukas's undershirts and Berwald's old shorts, Emil climbs onto the bed, half-laying atop the Swede's back. He presses his face into the pale skin, fingers tracing little red lines that he knows are centuries-old lashings finally healing fully.

For a long time neither man says anything, laying quietly. Berwald does shift so his arm can wrap around Emil on his back, but that's it. The two candles of the room flicker as a breeze blows in through the open window.

Finally, as if they had both arrived at the same conclusion at the same time, the two men shift to lay facing each other, Berwald's arm still resting low around Emil's waist. The smaller man reaches out to stroke the Swede's face, Berwald's eyes closing slowly, his mouth opening just a little though no sound is emitted.

"Berwald," Emil sighs though no words come to him after that. Under his fingertips Berwald's lips turn up at their corners.

"You and I," the man starts in a deep voice, his eyes meeting the young man's, "are different." Emil blinks as if to say, go on. "Your history is tied to Lukas's and Christen's, and mine is tied to Lukas's and Christen's, but on two different sides of the story. As children you and Timo used to play; as young countries you shared a camaraderie. You and I have never had such links."

"I've always looked up to you," the republic sighs, loosened up from the alcohol and dinner and this feeling of undeniable safety he feels in Berwald Oxenstierna's arms. "You've never looked down on me, or at least I've never felt that you have." A hand strokes his cheek, the Swede shifting closer. "Yet I feel like I really don't know you as a person beyond the man I've watched love my brother and my protector and my friend, but never, ever me."

Sea-green eyes blink and then the man does something Emil hadn't been expecting, which is to lean in close until his breath is hot on the Icelandic mouth, large hand falling from Emil's cheek down over his jaw to his neck. This close Berwald smells like wood and forrest and soap and something masculine, something Emil has never been able to put his finger on but that only this once-great Swedish kingdom has ever smelled of. He'd smelled of it during dinner, or before that nipping at his neck. The smaller nation has never smelled anything so wonderful in his life.

So Emil closes his eyes and leans in, feeling lips meet lips as one of his hands slips up the back of Berwald's head to rake through the short hair. The kiss is slow, their two bodies moving just a little bit closer, the Swede working his mouth in a way that makes Emil moan wantonly, Berwald seemingly encouraged by that judging from how his tongue darts out. With a careful roll Emil both opens his mouth and parts his legs, the larger man's tongue teasing him as he settles in. Berwald keeps his weight off of Emil, that one hand still on his neck, the other running up and down an exposed arm. For his part the republic wraps his arms around Berwald's neck, pulling him down closer.

It's like drowning, but never once caring.

The kiss breaks but Emil follows the trail of Berwald's lips as the Swede sits up, sighing deeply as his own head comes back to rest on the pillow. Violet eyes open slowly, blinking in the low light to watch Berwald remove his glasses and wipe spittle from the corner of his mouth. The man settles back down between Emil's legs, scooting a little bit to rest on his forearms on either side of the smaller chest. His face, if anything, looks even more like it was carved from stone as light flickers from both sides, casting shadows.

"Emil," he whispers in a barely audible breath, hesitating. So the youngest Nord reaches out to pull him down for another kiss that burns him up once more inside, consuming him and stealing his breath, confusing his heart until it no longer knows how to beat. Arms wrap around torsos and his legs go around Berwald's waist, and like that they press into one another as if they could become one body, one whole being united in something eternal, something greater than themselves. Hips move together, like waves in the ocean; the Icelander groans at the feel of something big and hard pressing into him.

Hands pull at his clothing until Emil relents, the kiss breaking so that Berwald can remove the republic's shirt before tugging down his pants and briefs. Hungry eyes dart wildly over his naked body and the smaller man wonders how well the kingdom can see without his glasses, how much of him he can make out in the low light of two solitary candles. Berwald looks like a lone, tall, handsomely-carved pillar in a great church he thinks, before lips attack his jaw, his neck, his shoulders. Emil knows enough to realize Berwald is making hickeys, one right after the other, all across his pale flesh; the thought makes his eyes roll back and hips buck.

The man above him moans something possessive.

His hands thread through the light blond hair as Berwald kisses lower, hands and lips teasing his nipples, licking, pinching, rolling. Emil tries to encourage him to go faster but he won't; like the hands of a clock, Berwald moves at a set pace over the Icelandic stomach that seems flabby compared to the rock hard abs of the Swede. Kisses go up his thighs, Berwald's nose nuzzling at the back of one of his knees. Emil opens his eyes to see the look of sublime bliss on Berwald's face before it changes into a predatory one as their eyes meet, the Swede lowering himself before his tongue comes out to lick at the head of Emil's cock.

Fuck! that was good, Berwald repeating the action several times before his hands join in, running up and down his shaft, playing with his balls, teasing the slit. But what really drives Emil crazy is the look of pleasure on his companion, as if he was enjoying himself doing this as much as Emil was enjoying being sucked off. Berwald hums with delight as he takes in Emil's length with ease, hot and incredible with his tongue moving in ways the Icelander has never imagined possible.

Hips buck but the Swede doesn't stop him, not completely; instead a hand takes a strong hold of one of Emil's hips to steady him and set a pace. His eyes want to roll back into his head as the Icelander enjoys the sensation but he holds out, trying so hard to watch and savor the sight of himself, itty-bitty, pay-no-mind-to-that-one, Emil Steilsson fucking the great Berwald Oxenstierna's mouth.

More than he can take, he comes with a gasp of something strangled, the Swede continuing until Emil has completely spent himself in his mouth. His whole body feels unbelievably relaxed like he hasn't in so many years, everything turning to jelly as Berwald sits between his still-parted legs. The man leans over him, kissing at Emil's jaw, before asking, "You're not a–"

"No!" he yelps, annoyed that the Swede would think he was still a virgin.

Berwald raises an eyebrow. "Just checking. I was everyone else's first," and he leans over to pull something from the small table beside the bed. "At least I won't be yours."

Contemplating that Emil asks, "And why's that? 'At least'?"

Sea-green eyes fix him a heavy stare before the man sighs and replies, "More equal this way."

"Equal?" Berwald settles back between his legs with a bottle of lubricant in one hand and a condom in the other. "What's that for?"

"Hmm?" The Swede looks to him before down at his hand. "Don't want to get you pregnant," he says as if that was the obvious and reasonable thing in the world, no sign of sarcasm in his voice.

"Says the man," Emil starts sarcastically, "who just sucked my dick. You hate condoms, I know you do." Beyond his infamously large dick, the kingdom was also infamously annoyed by condoms and having to use them.

"Don't know where you've been," Berwald corrects. "I'd prefer to remain disease-free's all."

"I don't have any diseases!" This conversation is admittedly becoming less sexy with every interruption Emil feels he has to make.

"You're sure?" If it had been Lukas or even Christen asking, the question would have been truly patronizing. As it was the smaller nation could tell his companion was genuinely asking.

"Yes. My first and I were checked before we did anything–" Emil still likes to pretend they don't all know who his first was "–and then… well–"

"Christen," Berwald laughs lowly, throwing the condom back. "I know things."

"You know nothing," Emil shoots back without thinking, finding the man suddenly leaning over him very menacingly and very sexily.

"Maybe I don't," the man admits, his breath hot against his skin. Emil's dick hardens a bit at his words, helped along by the hand lazily tracing its way down his body before wrapping around his erection and stroking it. Instinctively the republic wraps his arms around Berwald's neck, pulling him down slowly for a kiss that is agonizing and wonderful and makes everything seem to move in slow motion. Their lips part only to meet again, and again, and again, hips above his shifting so that the Swede can stroke their cocks together.

Emil actually mewls at the sensation.

A hand pulls one of his arms from around Berwald's neck, down to his own cock. "Want to see you stroke yourself," the man murmurs, kissing him hard before pulling back and lifting Emil's hips. Planting his legs to help lift his body, the small blond does as he's told, his face burning as his companion watches him. Long, slick fingers push at his entrance and Emil tries to let go and relax, his head rolling back and his eyes closing. Just as with teasing him before, Berwald is slow and meticulous and practiced; he pumps him and stretches him and prepares him fully. His first couple of times had been awkward, and with Christen the Dane had been drunk and upset and selfish.

This Emil's much more excited for, starting to stroke himself faster before those fingers are removed from inside him and his hips are shifted again. Berwald positions himself, leaning forward and kissing Emil to seemingly steal all his breath away. One large hand takes over stroking the cock between them before the Swede pushes in slowly, the republic's breathing catching in his lungs. Both arms once more wrapped around Berwald's neck, his legs follow suit, and the thrusting and humping and keening take over from rational thought and complete sentences.

Emil would hate to admit it, but he's wanted this so badly for years, to be the one Berwald was touching and feeling and filling– oh God filling –and fucking. The man inside him makes a soft, "ah!", every time he thrusts in, lips kissing Emil's face everywhere.

The blowing wind extinguishes one of the candles but they hardly seem to notice, the thrusts becoming more frantic, Berwald hitting that spot deep within Emil that makes him cry out. The Swede gives it everything he can, thrusting against it over and over, his hand pumping the Icelandic nation even still until the younger nation comes between them, screaming something unintelligible in Old Norwegian about Björn.

A few more thrusts and Berwald comes as well, his mouth open against Emil's shoulder as he groans and sighs at once.

For a while they stay like that, Emil's body wrapped tightly around the man holding him in the air, Berwald's ass exposed to the world, his face hidden by the pillow and Emil's head. It feels… nice, almost.

* * *

The next morning it feels quite different, Emil laying with his ass sticking in the air. Berwald beside him keeps running a hand over his ass cheeks, squeezing them and cupping them and saying lewd things about them. "You really do have a very lovely ass."

"Well thanks to you it hurts like a bitch right now," the Icelander cuts in.

There's a laugh before the Swede lifts him with great ease, carrying him outside to a cast-iron bathtub that seems to simply exist. Berwald sets Emil down gingerly on the edge, kissing him softly before getting several buckets of rain water to fill the tub. Once he's satisfied he helps the younger one climb in before joining him, the larger man settling in so that Emil could lay atop him.

"Better?" Berwald asks, kissing him.

"Colder."

"You remember how cold baths used to be."

"Lukas would make Christen warm the water for me."

"Too bad I'm neither Lukas nor Christen."

* * *

After breakfast it's Emil's turn to give chopping the firewood a go. He knew that though Berwald had made it look easy it most definitely wouldn't be; what he hadn't realized was just how fucking difficult it was going to be.

"I'm a weakling!" Emil protests as Berwald puts another log down to be split. "I can't do this!" The bloody Swede has the gaul to laugh, coming to stand beside the Icelander. The larger body presses into his and Emil's breath hitches as hands slide down his arms to help him grasp the axe. "Berwald," he moans, receiving a softer laugh and a kiss to the cheek.

"Like this."

It takes nearly two hours for Emil to find his strength and do it, chopping one log completely on his own. "Done!" he screams at that, dropping the axe. "I'm done, that's it!" Berwald simply shakes his head, smiling, as the triumphant Icelander puffs his chest out in pride.

* * *

They have a large, late lunch, Emil constantly pushing the Swede away and complaining he was going to cook this himself. The large man sits patiently on the log after that, only speaking when the smaller one hesitates.

Eventually they eat and it's not half bad.

"I'll have to take you hunting sometime," Berwald mutters as birds fly by over head.

"With a gun, or with a bow and arrows?"

* * *

Berwald jerks them off together, the Swede laying down this time as Emil sits astride his hips. And tonight the smaller man isn't so shocked at this, isn't as afraid to take in the sight Berwald makes as he gasps and moans and keens and makes all the most incredible noises for a man his size and with his stoicism to make. Emil even manages to get in a few of his own pretty words that make the Swede laugh and smile and maybe blush, just a little, as they kiss desperately.

In the end they come too soon, in the same way that it took them too long to come together at all: their clocks were out of sync, they weren't meant to be.

Still, as he lays in the large man's arms, Emil wouldn't trade it for the world.

* * *

With little room on the island, and little space in the boat to transport things, packing is easy. Berwald even manages to get it all loaded up on his own though truthfully, Emil hadn't exactly volunteered at any point to help.

No, instead he sits dejectedly on a tree stump, watching Berwald, watching the skerry, watching the water. The Swede comes to rest before him and the pair exchange long, silent looks before Berwald pulls Emil's head to him to kiss, tongue mapping out and conquering his mouth for perhaps the last time.

"I know this was never love," Emil murmurs against those lips, "but still."

Berwald shrugs. "There are plenty of different kinds of love," his deep voice corrects. "Maybe this was just one of those kinds."

The Icelander nods without understanding and that wins him a genuine smile from his companion. When he smiles like that, the light coming from behind, his clothes informal, it was easy to see the beauty Berwald Oxenstierna possesses. Emil only hopes the Swede sees some beauty in him too.

* * *

The drive to the airport is uneventful and silent until, just before arriving, Berwald pulls over suddenly. "Wait here," and he up and leaves Emil in a parking lot, the Icelander too busy enjoying having cell service to notice where Berwald was going. It was better this way, to immediately stop caring so much about the Swede; it would make it easier for things to get back to normal.

A few minutes later Berwald returns, slinging a scarf around the Icelander's neck and fluffing it up with a careless grace. "What the fuck's this for?" Emil demands, taking in the deep blue item that was soft, yes, and elegant but completely unnecessary.

"If your brother," Berwald says, starting the car back up and pulling out to finish the drive to the airport, "saw the hickeys you left that island with, my kingdom would be burned to the ground within hours."

Fingering the fringe at the ends Emil sighs, "Fair enough," before taking hold of Berwald's hand. He's still not sure how he feels about Berwald Oxenstierna but he's a lot more to contemplate at least than he did before this weekend. "Thank you," the Icelander breathes, not sure what exactly he means but hoping the larger man understands.

The Swede nods.


End file.
